


One glimpse. One touch.

by CodenameAntarctica



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Falling In Love, Heartache, Hedonism, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameAntarctica/pseuds/CodenameAntarctica
Summary: Mikhail has to endure one of those dreadful Soirees with fancy people sipping on their world-glass Champagne, when all he can think about is how to get out there real quick… until a certain young man crosses his path and is gone only moments later, taking with him something that Mikhail had not known he had had in the first place.
Relationships: Mikhail Arbatov/Liu Fei Long
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	One glimpse. One touch.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time that I write fanfiction EVER! It was just one idea that came to me when I was actually supposed to work on something else entirely and somehow it just kept flowing, once I had started writing. I’m sorry for any mistakes, English is not my native language.

He hated events like this. Hated them with every inch of his guts. They were the worst of all the duties that came with his job… or rather his occupation.

For hours and hours without ending you would sip on Champagne served in small crystal glasses, you would smoke expensive cigars, watch men wearing suits tailored by the best of their craft, which still looked all the same, and would have to marvel at the women clad in the finest designer dresses accompanying those guys. Sometimes he would have a girl on his own arm. One that he had met on some acquaintance’s Yacht last summer or in one of those top floor bars which you could only enter if your name was on some dubious guest list. If he wasn’t in the worst mood after they finally left said event, he would take the girl to a hotel. But never to his home, even _if_ they were in Macau. And never twice.

Another of those delicate glasses was passed into his hand by one of those waiters who also looked all the same – sleek black hair, clean shaved face, same height, black suits, black shirts, white ties. Never looking anyone in the eyes.

He downed the Champagne in one go. It was very good indeed, but that didn’t mean that he cared for it at all. He knew expensive or luxurious when he saw it, tasted it, felt it, but that did not compel him to enjoy it excessively or to even prefer it above lesser joys.

Naturally he looked dashing in his suit. It was the very best of Russian designers, tailored to fit every inch of his well-trained body. There was nothing that had not been paid very close attention to, from the fabric of his dark grey tie to the socks, that he had sent in from London, and even to the lazes of his shoes.

But – _hell!_ – he placed the empty glass onto the tray of just another of those waiters… or was it the same person as before? Keeping himself from sighing at the thought of how much he would rather wear some blue jeans and a cotton shirt right now, he nodded again towards Ibrahim, the man who had been talking to him relentlessly for quite a while now.

“Don’t you think so, Mikhail?”, the man asked. He was an old acquaintance. Someone that his father had done business with a lot and that now Mikhail would sometimes deal with as well.

In answer he just wiggled his head a bit, then suddenly patted the old chap on the shoulder and excused himself.

“Sorry, old mate. I’ll be right back.” And with that he made his way through the flock of people, who all seemed to love this kind of calamity, if the radiance on their faces was any indication, until he reached the other side of the room.

He didn’t know what Ibrahim had been talking about and he didn’t care. At events like this never anything important happened. That was another one of those things he severely hated about having to attend them at all. His presence was mandatory, it was expected of him. He had to show his face, so others knew, that he was still in the business. But _that_ was it!

If anyone wanted to do a deal with you, they would contact you directly. Never would they chat you up in a place like this. Never would they spill any secrets or plans.

For once unable to cut the sigh, which forced its way out of his throat, he thought about getting out onto the balcony and have one of those expensive cigars after all, but he usually didn’t smoke. It would just be a distraction from his boredom.

Or he could just _leave_. He could have his Aston Martin be brought out front, jump into it, drive through Shenzhen for a while until he would get bored of that as well, and then just get to some hotel or just drive home by himself. The two bodyguards who were waiting outside in a car of their own would not like that, but what did he care?

He smiled to himself, when another one of those old men crept up to him. Wang Wei Xi was about sixty, his head didn’t even reach up to Mikhail’s shoulder and you could probably count all the single hairs on his head with two hands. He was however one of those few people who weren’t a complete pain in the ass from the start.

Raising his short arm in front of the Russian’s chest to point to the other side of the room he said with a chuckle: “See that curtain over there. One evening I hid behind it.”

“The whole evening?”

“Yes, my dear. The _whole_ evening. You might try. If there’s not anyone else trying to hide himself there already.”

Mikhail chuckled as well, and he meant it. The curtain hung next to the balcony, only on one side of the giant windows and therefore even more voluminous. It was made of black and gold velvet and looked like it could suffocate you, if you hid too well in its folds. As a matter of fact, for a few moments Mikhail enjoyed imagining how the curtain was ripped from its bars and fell over all those people in the ballroom, squashing them beneath it. All the noises of telling each other how good one had done in those past months would come to end. There would be no more clinking of glasses, no more false laughs, no more Champagne- slurping that sounded like the noises in an Asian noddle restaurant. There would be silence and all the designer clothes and the hundred-dollar-makeup in the faces of the ladies and the extravagant hairdos would not save a single life. Neither would the money in their pockets or the Rolex on their wrists or the diamonds around their necks.

“You know, I’ve just been thinking about ditching this affair and going for a drive. You wanna join?”, he asked the small man by his side, pulling himself out of those lovely daydreams.

“Ah”, answered Wang and chuckled again in a way that made him sound like a young girl. The illusion was only broken because Mikhail looked at him and the laughing made the old man’s face contort into what looked like the head of a badly preserved turtle. “I would like to, but nah. I’m an old man, you know. It would most likely be too much for my heart.”

And at that moment his expression suddenly changed. It seemed like he lit up. Like someone had brought some source of bright light near him. His dark eyes grew wider, even his wrinkles seemed to be less deep and numerous. He put a hand onto his heart and the smile that found its way onto his lips then was a completely different one. There was no mischief in it, no pretense. He seemed genuinely delighted.

“And _you_ could make my heart beat again even if I had been dead for a week”, he said but not to the man by his side.

Mikhail turned, following Wang’s gaze and felt himself freeze.

Whatever light had shone onto the other’s face he could suddenly see and feel it himself. He noticed himself swallowing hard.

Just a few steps away stood a young man. Tall, slender, with raven black hair framing his beautiful face and spilling over his shoulders onto his chest. Different from all the men in the ballroom he was clad in a tight Cheongsam of silver and blue silk.

He reached out to Wang, whose fingers seemed to tremble slightly before they took hold of the offered hand and shook it tenderly.

“I am glad, that you are _not_ dead”, said the young man and thereby dissolved any last doubt in Mikhail that he might have been mistaken, and that the person in front of him with those feminine features and incredibly long lashes might eventually be a woman.

Wang laughed again but there was nothing of that young girl’s squeak now. The sound was deep, temperate and almost inaudible.

“If _you_ came to bring me back to live, I would love to die right here and now, Master Fei Long”, he whispered. At that point the young man’s hand let go of the other ones, and the sigh escaping Wang was only half covered by him turning to the Russian by his side.

“May I introduce to you my good friend, Mikhail Arbatov”, he proclaimed, after clearing his throat.

The young man turned and Mikhail, who had just been raising his own arm, to greet the stranger, felt himself freeze again, when those dark eyes met his.

He knew, who that man was, though he had never met him. _‘Fei Long’_ , he thought. _‘Liu Fei Long’_. He wished, he could speak that name now and for the first time. Have it on his lips, taste it, feel it. And then he just couldn’t refrain himself from doing so.

“Liu Fei Long”, he said, finally reaching for the Chinese’s hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Arbatov.”

“Liu Fei Long”, Mikhail said once more, and then again. The young man blinked at him, but not until he looked at Wang did Mikhail regain his consciousness. He let go of the hand, and his palm felt suddenly cold and weak.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, clearing his throat with a light cough. “That name, it sounds like a magic spell. Very bewitching. Just like it’s owner.”

The Chinese’s eyes found back to him but now he frowned, what just made Mikhail smile broadly. He wished, he could stop himself from doing so, but he had the strange feeling that some part of his body had just taken over. Or rather some part of his brain, that had not been getting enough blood and air in the last few moments.

“I had not known, that you would be here today”, pulled Wang the other’s attention back to himself.

Fei Long nodded. A strand of his silky black hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it behind his ear with a movement that seemed completely unintentional and therefore even more graceful. “Mr. Anagal has been a friend of Baishe for a very long time.”

Robert Anagal - that was the name of the man who had invited all those fancy people to this exquisite location: the ball room of a villa that was a recreation of an old British mansion and that overlooked a huge private park in the outskirts of Shenzhen’s Fairy Lake Botanical Garden. Those colonists of former days would be proud of all this pomp and splendor, had Mikhail thought when he had arrived there.

But now other thoughts occupied his mind. He had been in Macau for two years, had been to many meetings and parties and celebrations, even to some funerals, and he _had_ dealt with Baishe several times as there was nearly no way past them in China – and nowhere at all if you were doing business in Hong Kong. Yet he had never met Liu Fei Long, to whom all those events should be mandatory as much as they were to _him_ – and still: _He_ didn’t care. He would not grace those mortals with his presence, would not descent from his tower to mingle with people like those who filled this hall. And contrary to all those lectures that Mikhail had had to endure from his father and from Yuri about how he should behave, about his duties and obligations and responsibility, and about how easy it was to let all the power and influence just slip through his hands by not abiding to those rules of etiquette: Fei Long was still in power and at that _more_ powerful than anybody that Mikhail knew about.

He did _not_ play by the rules. _He_ made the rules for himself and others had to bow to them, to accept them and to worship him, nonetheless. And whenever he _did_ for once grace them with his attendance, he was the sun shining on creatures that had been kept in darkness for millennia.

Just _now_ they crept close, several men with delighted faces, wide eyes and eager expressions, the women on their arms suddenly forgotten and fading away in the presence the Chinese man.

For a moment more Fei Long exchanged pleasantries with Wang, while keeping the Russian in the corner of his eye. Mikhail found himself still smiling at him and realized that the young man had taken a step back from him.

He wished for a hand to hit him fiercely on the back of his head to make his brain restart. He felt the muscles on his face tense up by that daft expression he was showing. He could clench his fists and wanted to punch himself to unfreeze himself, but he could not lift his arms. And then with a polite goodbye to Wang and a quick nod towards Mikhail, Fei Long was gone and seized by those dark and damp creatures that had waited yearningly to just catch his attention for a second.

Mikhail jumped as someone touched his arm. It was Wang, his hand tugging on the Russian’s elbow. He seemed to sway for a moment and then waved one of his bodyguards over, who were not far off and blended with the other guests perfectly, tough not indulging in drinks or conversations.

“Excuse me, my friend. I need to sit down. I think, you should do as well.”

When the old man was led away by his bodyguard, Mikhail heard himself stutter something utterly unintelligible what might have been a protest or a good-bye or anything else. Wang didn’t care and neither did _he._ He had just felt the smile fall from his face like the last leaf from a dying tree and that made him shudder momentarily, before he pulled himself together and plucked not one but two glasses of Champagne from a passing waiter’s tablet, downing them in two swigs.

For the next hour he found himself leaning on a wall here, on some small table there, jostling his way through the crowd and never losing sight of Fei Long for more than a few seconds. However, he never got close to him again. Whenever there was chance, to just rush forwards and maybe go as far as even catch the man’s wrist to seize his attention, Mikhail found himself glued to the spot. And wherever Fei Long went the crowd was thicker and still somewhat quieter than anywhere around. Like moths those present seemed to gather around him, striving for his light, yearning for the warms of the sun.

It only changed when Robert Anagal came to greet Fei Long. He was a man of average height with dark bronze skin and excessive cheekbones. The white tuxedo he was wearing made him stick out of the crowed just as much as the Chinese man, but though the host’s features inherited by his Indian ancestry made his appearance striking, his good looks were dulled completely by Fei Long’s.

They talked for a while, with Mikhail watching them rigidly from afar. Then Anagal suddenly leaned into the other man. It wasn’t more than a peck if there was any contact at all. It happened too fast and so lightly it could as well have been less than the man’s breath brushing the Chinese’s cheek. Then they parted. Fei Long went up the stairs, disappeared through those white, ornamented doors and was gone.

And Mikhail found himself standing there among those rich, noisy, half-drunken hedonists, and felt his blood drain onto the floor. If he had been shot or stabbed, and whatever life had been inside him was now spilling out, he would not have been surprised. It sure felt like that. But _what_?! _What_ made him feel like that?

That this man he had never met before, that he had seen up close for mere seconds, whose name he knew but could tell nearly nothing else about – that _he_ had been touched ever so faintly by somebody else. By _anybody_ else?

Or was is that he had left _now_. That even if Mikhail could gather the strength to move, to fight his way through the crowd and up the stairs, he would not reach the front door in time to catch up with Fei Long? Not to mention that he would not know what to say to him at all, for not only his voice had left him, but his sense and sanity altogether.

Or was it that he could simply not watch him anymore, how he glided through the ballroom as if every stone in it had just been knocked out of the rock and brought here - from Italy probably - so that this one man would once walk upon them?

He didn’t know. He just _didn’t_ know. He only knew how it felt. Like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and all the warmth that had once filled his body with live had been taken away. But not by violence, not by force: By loss.


End file.
